One Month with the Magnate (4 page)

He shook his head, disappointed, but not surprised. His new housekeeper was not off to a good start. Her first day on the job could very well be her last.

He walked back to her quarters and raised his hand to knock, then noticed the door wasn't latched. With his foot he gave it a gentle shove and it creaked open. He expected to find Isabelle curled up in bed. Instead she sat slumped over at the desk, head resting on her arms, sound asleep. She was still wearing the clothes from last night, and on the desk, under her arms, lay the list of her duties. Her bag sat open but unpacked on the bed, and the covers hadn't been disturbed.

She must have dozed off shortly after going to her room, and she must have been pretty exhausted to sleep in such an awkward position all night.

He sighed and shook his head. At least one of them had gotten a good night's rest.

A part of him wanted to be angry with her, wanted to send her packing for neglecting her duties, but he had the feeling this had been an unintentional oversight. He would give her the benefit of the doubt. Just this once. But he wouldn't deny himself the pleasure of giving her a hard time about it.

“I
sabelle!”

Isabelle shot up with such force she nearly flung the chair over, blinking furiously, trying to get her bearings. She saw Emilio standing in the doorway and her eyes went wide. “Wh-what time is it?”

“Three minutes after seven.” He folded his arms, kept his mouth in a grim line. “Were you expecting breakfast in bed?”

Her skin paled. “I was going to set the alarm on my phone. I must have fallen asleep before I had the chance.”

“And you consider that a valid excuse for neglecting your duties?”

“No, you're right. I screwed up.” She squared her shoulders and rose stiffly from the chair. “I'll pack my things and be out of here before you leave from work.”

For a second he thought she was playing the sympathy
card, but she wore a look of resigned hopelessness that said she seriously expected him to terminate their agreement.

He probably should have, but if he let her go now he would be denying himself the pleasure of breaking her. Lucky for her, he was feeling generous this morning. “If you leave, who will make my coffee?”

She gazed up at him with hope in her eyes. “Does that mean you're giving me a second chance?”

“Don't let it happen again. Next time I won't be so forgiving.”

“I won't, I promise.” She looked over at the dresser. “My uniform—”

“Coffee first.”

“What about breakfast?”

“No time. I only have twenty-five minutes until the company car is here to pick me up.”

“Sorry.” She edged past him through the door and scurried to the kitchen.

He went to his office to put the necessary paperwork in his briefcase, and when he walked back into the kitchen several minutes later the coffee was brewed. Isabelle wasn't there, so he grabbed a travel mug and filled it himself. He took a sip, surprised to realize that it was actually good. A little stronger than his housekeeper, Mrs. Medina, usually made it, but he liked it.

Isabelle emerged from her room a minute later wearing her uniform. He looked her up and down and frowned. The oversize garment hung on her, accentuating her skeletal physique. “It's too big.”

She shrugged. “It's okay.”

It was an old uniform a former employee had left so he hadn't really expected it to fit. “You'll need a new one.”

“It's only for thirty days. It's fine.”

“It is not
fine.
It looks terrible. Tell me what size you wear and I'll have a new one sent to the house.”

She chewed her lip, avoiding his gaze.

“Are you going to tell me, or should I guess?”

“I'm not exactly sure. I've lost weight recently.”

“So tell me your weight and height and they can send over the appropriate size.”

“I'm five foot four.”

“And…?”

She looked at the floor.

“Your weight, Isabelle?”

She shrugged.

“You don't know how much you weigh?”

“I don't own a scale.”

He sighed. Why did she have to make everything so difficult?

“Fitness room,” he said, gesturing to the doorway. “I have a scale in there.”

She reluctantly followed him and was even less enthusiastic about getting on the digital scale. As she stepped on she averted her eyes.

The number that popped up was nothing short of disturbing. “Considering your height, you have to be at least fifteen or twenty pounds underweight.”

Isabelle glanced at the display, and if her grimace was any indication, she was equally unsettled by the number. Not the reaction he would have expected from someone with a “there's no such thing as too thin” dictum.

“Am I correct in assuming this weight loss wasn't intentional?” he asked.

She nodded.

It hadn't occurred to him before, but what if there was something wrong with her? “Are you ill?”

She stepped down off the scale. “It's been a stressful couple of months.”

“That's no excuse to neglect your health. While you're here I expect you to eat three meals a day, and I intend to make you climb on that scale daily until you've gained at least fifteen pounds.”

Her eyes rounded with surprise.

“Is that a problem?” he asked.

For an instant she looked as though she would argue, then she pulled her lip between her teeth and shook her head.

“Good.” He looked at his watch. “I have to go. I'll be home at six-thirty. I expect dinner to be ready no later than seven.”

“Yes, sir.”

There was a note of ambivalence in her tone, but he let it slide. The subject of her weight was clearly a touchy one. A fact he planned to exploit. And he had the distinct feeling there was more to the story than she would admit. Just one more piece to this puzzle of a woman who he thought he knew, but wasn't at all what he had expected.

 

Though Isabelle wasn't sure what her father had paid Emilio's mother, she was positive it wasn't close to enough.

She never imagined taking care of a house could be so exhausting. The dusting alone had taken nearly three hours, and she'd spent another two and a half on the windows and mirrors on the first floor. Both tasks had required more bending and stretching than any yoga class she'd ever attended, and she'd climbed the stairs so many times her legs felt limp.

Worse than the physical exhaustion was how inept she was at using the most basic of household appliances. It had taken her ten minutes to find the “on” switch on the
vacuum, and one frayed corner on the upstairs runner to learn that the carpet setting didn't work well for fringed rugs. They got sucked up into the spinny thing inside and ripped off. She just hoped that Emilio didn't notice. She would have to figure out some way to pay to get it fixed. And soon.

Probably her most puzzling dilemma was the cupboard full of solutions, waxes and paraphernalia she was supposed to use in her duties. Never had she imagined there were so many different types of cleaning products. She spent an hour reading the labels, trying to determine which suited her various tasks, which put her even further behind in her duties.

Her new uniforms arrived at three-thirty by messenger. Emilio had ordered four in two different sizes, probably to accommodate the weight he was expecting her to gain. The smallest size fit perfectly and was far less unflattering than the oversize version. In fact, it fit better and looked nicer than most of the street clothes she currently owned. Too bad it didn't contain magic powers that made her at least a little less inept at her duties.

When she heard Emilio come through the front door at six-thirty, she hadn't even started on the upstairs guest room yet. She steeled herself for his latest round of insults and jabs and as he stepped into the kitchen, travel cup in one hand, his briefcase in the other, her heart sailed up into her throat. He looked exhausted and rumpled in a sexy way.

He set his cup in the sink. Though she was probably inviting trouble, she asked, “How was work?”

“Long, and unproductive,” he said, loosening his tie. “How was your day?”

A civilized response? Whoa. She hadn't expected that. “It was…good.”

“I see you haven't burned the house down. That's promising.”

So much for being civil.

“I'm going to go change,” he said. “I trust dinner will be ready on time.”

“Of course.” At least she hoped so. It had taken her a bit longer to assemble the chicken dish than she'd anticipated, so to save cooking time, she'd raised the oven heat by one hundred degrees.

He gave her a dismissive nod, then left the room. She heard the heavy thud of his footsteps as he climbed the stairs. With any luck he wouldn't look down.

A minute passed, and she began to think that she was safe, then he thundered from the upstairs hallway, “Isabelle!”

Shoot.

It was still possible it wasn't the rug he was upset about. Maybe he'd checked the guest room and saw that she hadn't cleaned it yet. She walked to the stairs, climbing them slowly, her hopes plummeting when she reached the top and saw him standing with his arms folded, lips thinned, looking at the corner of the runner.

“Is there something you need to tell me?” he asked.

It figured that he would ignore all the things she had done right and focus in on the one thing she had done wrong. “The vacuum ate your rug.”

“It
ate
it?”

“I had it on the wrong setting. I take full responsibility.” As if it could somehow
not
be her fault.

“Why didn't you mention this when I asked how your day went?”

“I forgot?”

One dark brow rose. “Is that a question?”

She took a deep breath and blew it out. “Okay, I was hoping you wouldn't notice.”

“I notice
everything.
”

Apparently. “I'll pay for the damage.”

“How?”

Good question. “I'll figure something out.”

She expected him to push the issue, but he didn't.

“Is there anything else you've neglected to mention?”

Nothing she hadn't managed to fix, unless she counted the plastic container she'd melted in the microwave, but he would never notice that.

She shook her head.

Emilio studied her, as if he were sizing her up, and she felt herself withering under his scrutiny.

“That's better,” he said.

She blinked. “Better?”

“The uniform. It actually fits.”

Did he just compliment her? Albeit in a backhanded, slightly rude way. But it was a start.

“You ate today?” he asked.

“Twice.” For breakfast she'd made herself fried eggs swimming in butter with rye toast slathered in jam and for lunch she'd heated a can of clam chowder. It had been heavenly.

He looked down at the rug again. “This will have to be rebound.”

“I'll take care of it first thing tomorrow.”

“Let me know how much it will be and I'll write a check.”

“I'll pay you back a soon as I can.” She wondered what the hourly wage was to make license plates.

“Yes, you will.” He turned and walked into his bedroom, shutting the door.

Isabelle blew out a relieved breath. That hadn't gone
nearly as bad as she'd expected. With any hope, dinner would be a smashing success and he would be so pleased he would forget all about the rug.

Though she had the sneaking suspicion that if it was the most amazing meal he'd ever tasted, he would complain on principle.

 

Dinner was a culinary catastrophe.

She served him overcooked, leathery chicken in lumpy white sauce with a side of scorched rice pilaf and a bowl of wilted salad swimming in dressing. He wouldn't feed it to his dog—if he had one. But what had Emilio expected from someone who had probably never cooked a meal in her entire life?

Isabelle hadn't stuck around to witness the aftermath. She'd fixed his plate, then vanished. He'd come downstairs to find it sitting on the dining room table accompanied by a highball glass
full
of scotch. Maybe she thought that if she got him good and toasted, he wouldn't notice the disastrous meal.

He carried his plate to the kitchen and dumped the contents in the trash, then fixed himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and ate standing at the kitchen sink. Which he noted was a disaster area. Considering all the dirty pots and pans and dishes, it looked as though she'd prepared a ten course meal. He hoped she planned to come out of hiding and clean it up.

As he was walking to his office, drink in hand, he heard the hum of the vacuum upstairs. Why the hell was she cleaning at seven-thirty in the evening?

He climbed the stairs and followed the sound to the first guest bedroom. Her back was to him as she vacuumed around the queen-size bed. He leaned in the doorway and watched her. The new uniform was a major improvement,
but she still looked painfully thin. She had always been finely boned and willowy, but now she looked downright scrawny.

But still beautiful. He used to love watching her, even if she was doing nothing more than sitting on his bed doing her class work. He never got tired of looking at her. Even now she possessed a poise and grace that was almost hypnotizing.

She turned to do the opposite side of the bed and when she saw him standing there she jolted with alarm. She hit the Off switch.

“Surprised to see me?” he asked.

She looked exhausted. “Did you need something?”

“I just thought you'd like to know that it didn't work.”

She frowned. “What didn't work?”

“Your attempt to poison me.”

He could see that he'd hurt her feelings, but she lifted her chin in defiance and said, “Well, you can't blame a girl for trying. Besides, now that I think about it, smothering you in your sleep will be so much more fun.”

He nearly cracked a smile. “Is that why you're trying to incapacitate me with excessive amounts of scotch?”

She shrugged. “It's always easier when they don't fight back.”

She'd always had a wry sense of humor. He just hadn't expected her to exercise it. Unless she wasn't joking. It might not be a bad idea to lock his bedroom door. Just in case.

“Why are you up here cleaning?” he asked.

She looked at him funny, as though she thought it was a trick question. “Because that's what you brought me here to do?”

“What I mean is, shouldn't you be finished for the day?”

“Maybe I should be, but I'm not.”

It probably wasn't helping that he'd instructed Mrs. Medina to toss in a few extra tasks on top of her regular duties, though he hadn't anticipated it taking Isabelle quite this long. He'd just wanted to keep her busy during the day. Apparently it had worked. A little
too
well.

“I have work to do and the noise is distracting,” he told her.